


Skip Across the Pond

by howler32557038



Series: The Simple Life [13]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Coitus Interruptus, Comedy, Domestic Avengers, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Kid Fic, M/M, Mpreg, Post Mpreg, Pre-SGCW, Romantic Comedy, The Avengers are good parents, The Farmhouse, The Simple Life (Series), Tumblr Prompt, post-TSL
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:41:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: Steve, Bucky, and Lincoln risk their safety for a rare indulgence: an unplanned trip. Brooklyn has no choice but to reluctantly tag along.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: The Simple Life [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1031180
Comments: 47
Kudos: 235





	1. Hop the Border

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @kikirogers for this prompt, which I couldn't fill with just one chapter: **Road trip. Either getaway from just life or for a private holiday trip.**
> 
> I guess trips can only be made so short. :)

##  September 21, 2022

A little before six a.m., Steve feels a pair of knees in his gut. He startles awake with a pained exhale as Lincoln wriggles into the small space between his parents, pushing them apart to make room. He’s taken off his socks and pajamas, even though the apartment is chilly. He presses his cold feet into Steve’s thighs to warm them up.

Lincoln remains silent for twenty-five seconds. It’s just long enough that Steve begins to wonder if he might  _ stay  _ silent and let him go back to sleep.

“Dad.”

“Go back to sleep for a little bit, Lincoln. Saturday,” Steve mumbles. Maybe if he pretends to be mostly asleep, Lincoln will give up for a few more minutes.

“Okay,” Lincoln sighs forlornly. “I’ll try, I guess.”

_ Oh no,  _ Steve thinks.  _ We’re not playing this game. _ Besides, Bucky doesn’t like it when Steve gives Lincoln what he wants just for wheedling and acting pitiful. And really, he might have a point. Steve resolves to do better, starting now.

“I’m awake,” Bucky yawns, turning himself over and scooping Lincoln up to pull him close against his chest. “You can come bother me.”

Steve understands now; this was all a set-up to make him feel like the mean parent.

Lincoln tilts his head backward to bump it against Bucky’s chin, making sure he’s alert. “Can we go see Natalie today?”

Steve watches Bucky pry his eyes open curiously. "That's a long trip, Lincoln."

And it takes several days worth of planning. Will Clint and Laura be home? Are they busy? They can't take Lincoln with them in the car, someone might see them. Bucky couldn't travel by car right now either. He's showing too much to risk going out in public. They'd have to talk Tony into letting them borrow one of the jets, and one may not even be available. Steve no longer makes a habit of knowing which craft are in the hangars on his days off.

"Please? We haven't gone anywhere in a really long time, plus I guess I just miss Natalie really bad, Papa. I like her because she’s the same age as me and it’s just always a lot of fun when I get to see her, so I guess I was just thinking about that,” Lincoln explains.

“We’ll go sometime soon, honey.” Bucky wraps both arms around his son and squeezes tighter. He passes Steve a desperately pleading look as he speaks, though he doesn’t let his own desire creep into his voice. He makes sure Lincoln doesn’t see him. “But probably not today.”

“Oh,” Lincoln sighs, deflating against Bucky and slumping into the pillows. “Soon, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Bucky confirms, nudging Steve’s ankle hard with his bare foot. “We’ll try.”

Steve and Bucky spend the next half hour in silent conversation, waiting for Lincoln to fall asleep again. Bucky kicks Steve’s ankle and Steve shakes his head. Bucky accepts that answer for a minute or two, then repeats the cycle until Steve finally  _ doesn’t  _ shake his head. One more gentle prod in the shin and Steve rolls his eyes and nods. As carefully as if they were disarming a bomb in the dark, they slip out bed and pull the curtains shut - Lincoln might sleep a little deeper if the room is dark - and then shuffle silently out of the bedroom.

“You call Tony, I’ll call Laura and Clint,” Bucky suggests in a whisper once they reach the kitchen. 

Steve gives up on any hope of more sleep today and starts their coffee. Bucky is allowed only two cups per day of caffeinated coffee, and he never skips them or pours a drop out. He sleeps so poorly lately that he doesn’t accomplish much without it.

Steve - still struggling with his own exhaustion - automatically pulls all of Bucky’s prenatal vitamins out of their drawer in the kitchen. Bucky follows behind him sleepily and takes them in the same order as every other morning. “You call Tony. Makes him feel good when you ask him for favors.”

“Yeah, he just likes to say no to you,” Bucky agrees.

Steve leans back against the cool surface of the refrigerator and stretches, watching Bucky wander around their small kitchen, waking up slowly. He loves how unselfconscious Bucky is when he’s tired - he’s wearing plain dark grey briefs and an old white undershirt that seems to be shrinking by the day. He still hasn’t cut his hair. It’s just long enough now to tuck behind his ears - a nervous habit he indulges in so often that his hair has two near-permanent waves on each side - and when he’s pregnant it looks twice as thick and wild just after he rolls out of bed. He pushes his shirt up to rub his sore ribs and Steve can’t help but notice that his belly looks  _ so _ beautiful today - and boy, he had  _ popped  _ this week. Two weeks ago, he looked thicker through the middle, like he’d eaten a big meal, and then, overnight, he was very obviously pregnant.

When Steve reaches out and lays his hand on it, Bucky’s skin is tight and warm, still stretching out to accommodate the growth spurt. Steve smiles because he’s still getting used to Bucky leaning  _ in _ when he touches him there - at first, with Lincoln, Bucky would freeze, startled, and turn away. Later, he didn’t mind having his stomach touched, so long as he initiated the contact. Now, all Steve has to do is put his hand out and Bucky leans in, and they do it as easily as they had passed Lincoln back and forth while making lunch.

“Buck, are you sure you want to try to go to Clint and Laura’s today? Sounds like a lot of work.”

“He wants to see Natalie,” Bucky sighs, laying his head on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve’s face breaks into a pained grin. “Ugh, Lincoln wants to  _ marry _ Natalie. We shouldn’t let them visit until they’re sixteen.”

“They’re so sweet, Steve. Steve,” Bucky says sharply, giving him a playful slap on the cheek. “She picked  _ dandelions _ for him on Easter, Steve,” he groans. “And gave them to him. And he almost fainted. They’re  _ so _ cute.”

“Stop trying to set our son up with the only girl he knows.”

“Alright, but can we go?” Bucky asks, raising his head from Steve’s shoulder.

“ _ Maybe, _ Bucky, but we’ve got to--”

“Steve.” Bucky takes a step toward him, effectively pinning him against the refrigerator. It’s clearly a threat. “Please get me out of this apartment.”

“Bucky.” And Steve would be willing to admit defeat right now, but Bucky’s hands are gripping his sides now and he suddenly wants to let this argument drag on a little longer.

“Please,” Bucky whispers, leaning in to let his lips brush against Steve’s neck. A chill bursts through Steve’s spine as Bucky laughs. “Come on, my therapist told me I needed to socialize more.” His hands slide all the way down to the tops of Steve’s thighs. 

“Jeez, you’re not kidding around,” Steve breathes unsteadily. “You really think we’re going to get away with this? In the kitchen? This is his favorite place.”

“You don’t wanna fuck?”

“Shh.”

“Then can we go?” Bucky asks casually. He runs the palm of his left hand down the length of Steve’s cock, and Steve’s head falls back against the refrigerator. He leans in and kisses Steve’s jaw.

“Okay,” Steve laughs, trying to catch his breath. “We can do whatever you want.”

“I wanna get in the shower and lock the bathroom door.”

“He’ll wake up.”

“He’ll be fine if we’re in the shower for five minutes.”

“Who said five minutes?”

The handle on the bedroom door turns. They both hear it and stand up straight, backing away from one another and looking for a task to occupy their guilty hands. They’re barely presentable before Lincoln comes running into the living room, carrying his already-packed bookbag like a suitcase. He has Bucky’s  _ phone _ in his hands, too.

“You guys, Clint said we could come, and Tony said there’s the little jet in Hangar C. So we can go now, if you guys want to.”

Bucky turns on his heel and leans over the kitchen island, eyes narrowed. “And when did Clint and Tony say those things?”

Lincoln clumsily executes an identical turn; with forced ease, he holds up Bucky’s cellphone and gives them a dumb, cocky little shrug which he seems to immediately regret. He pointedly avoids  _ looking _ at the cellphone. “On the phone.”

“What did you do, Lincoln?”

Suddenly, the phone is all Lincoln  _ will _ look at. He studies it  _ thoroughly _ for excuses. “Well, I know, you know - you know how when we go see Natalie, you’ve got to call Tony to see if you can - if he can just let you have the jet for a minute if nobody else is using it? And then if he says it’s okay, you call Mrs. Barton or Clint. So I just did that, because, I mean, I can  _ read _ and you actually taught me  _ how _ to use it, anyway. I didn’t even ask to - I didn’t ask to talk to Natalie, either, actually. So it was just for a second that I used it.”

Steve and Bucky wait patiently as he meanders toward the conclusion of his tediously improvised monologue.

“Lincoln,” Bucky says. His voice is low and stern, but Steve can see something change in his eyes - he’s  _ fighting _ back laughter.

They  _ have to _ be mad at Lincoln for this. They can’t let him think this is alright. They have to take this seriously. Bucky is looking his son right in the eye, too, which is dangerous territory.

“Lincoln, you mean to tell me you stole my cellphone and secured a flight to Canada on a jj--” Massive failure. Bucky’s words dissolve into air, wheezing out of him like he’s been punched in the gut. He doubles over and Steve wants to help him, but now he’s broken, too. He can’t see for the tears streaming down his face. He’s paralyzed.

Lincoln is white with fear. He approaches the kitchen island cautiously, but his parents are laughing too hard to walk, so he risks coming close enough to set the cellphone on the counter in front of Bucky. He retreats swiftly to the living room. “Dad,” he entreats softly. “Papa, I can’t tell if you’re mad or not.”

“We’re mad,” Steve cries adamantly.

“We’re pissed--” Bucky slips, choking on every vowel.

Steve momentarily gets his breath back. He shakes his head, trying to frown. “We’re  _ so  _ pissed.”

And that sets them back off.

Lincoln’s punishment for this infraction is standing in the dark living room for two minutes while his parents laugh at him.


	2. Catch a Steady Breeze

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a roundabout way, Bucky helps Steve confront his fear of flying.

**SEPTEMBER 24, 2022. 7:50 A.M.**

**NEAR NY/VT BORDER**

“Can I undo my seatbelt and get up yet?”

“No, you may not,” Steve answers firmly.

Bucky glances back at the two of them from his seat in the cockpit. Steve has been moving around the cabin throughout their takeoff, so his order to Lincoln is a little hypocritical. Bucky, however, is wearing his seatbelt. Lincoln is very quietly trying to take his off. “Aa—” Bucky takes his right hand from the controls to snap his fingers and point to Lincoln’s jumpseat. “Sit on your butt. Seatbelt on. Now.”

“I’m sorry, I thought we were high up enough!”

“Uh, Lincoln, you will be lucky if I let you out of that seat at all,” Bucky laughs, programming in their familiar flightpath with one hand. With the other hand, he’s still combing his hair and putting on chapstick and deodorant and trying to drink the meager twenty ounces of coffee Steve allows him per day. Clint and Laura are among their dearest, closest friends, but he’d still like to look _close_ to presentable. “I cannot believe you took my phone — Tony and Clint _should not_ have said yes to this, buddy. You better have said thank you.”

“Of _course_ I said thank you, it’s a _jet,_ ” Lincoln says shrilly, putting his arms in the air. “It’s not like I asked Tony to borrow a cup of _sugar.”_

Bucky snorts. “Where’d you even hear that?”

“I don’t know, maybe like on a cartoon or a show. Maybe Batman.”

He shakes his head. “You’re weird, son.”

“Hey, _Dad_ is standing up, Papa. He’s being dangerous,” Lincoln tattles, pointing his finger. Steve is still replacing the Cap suit in its locker; it had needed a few repairs last time he took this jet, and somehow — years ago — Steve had taken on the responsibility of keeping the Quinjets clean, organized, and stocked with supplies, and even as the Avengers grew and took on a huge support staff, he’d never really stopped.

“Yeah, well, Dad has good balance,” Bucky replies airily. “You got a carpet burn on your face ‘cause you tripped while you were sneaking cereal back to your room — remember that?”

“Uh, my sock was on too loose and it got caught underneath of my other foot. And I wasn’t — what is _true_ is that I wasn’t sneaking back there, because I know — I knew you wouldn’t be mad, because I was hungry which is — um, it’s upsetting to you,” he explains, even hesitantly trying out a few gestures that he considers to be very grown-up. “I was actually just trying to be polite and not wake you guys up.”

“Uh-huh.”

Steve finishes what he’s doing and comes to join Bucky in the cockpit, thumping the back of Lincoln’s seat as he makes his way up. “Snitch.”

“Did we even _bring_ any snacks?” Lincoln asks, ignoring his father brazenly.

“Lincoln, we’re gonna have breakfast with Laura and Clint’s family, because you woke Clint up at a quarter past six in the morning to pester him and he decided to be nice,” Steve answers.

Bucky leans down to dig in his backpack, blindly guiding the Quinjet’s ascent.

“Did you call them both back?” Bucky asks. He finds what he’s looking for and throws a baggie full of granola into Lincoln’s lap.

“Yeah, they thought it was hilarious, they’re fine,” Steve says quietly out of the side of his mouth.

“Papa, isn’t this _your_ granola, though? Are you sure I can have it?”

“I’ll be fine, baby, go ahead.”

“Do you have any milk with you?”

Bucky stares out at the sunrise and thinks for a long time, about a lot of things.

Steve was right; this is a lot of work; they could have slept in; Lincoln can unlock a cell phone and access the contacts and get some billionaire to loan him a jet, and yet no matter how many times Bucky reminds him he doesn’t carry _gallons of milk_ everywhere with him he _doesn’t fucking get it._ “No,” he finally answers.

But Lincoln and Natalie are _really_ darling when they get together. It makes Steve nervous, but Bucky absolutely melts when those two flirt. He has a soft spot a mile wide for that fairytale notion of love at first sight between two kids, who would grow up together and be teenage sweethearts and then one day settle down and get married. He’s not sure why, but he loves that idea.

And the apartment, along with the rest of the NAF, is only so large. Bucky is twenty weeks pregnant: at nine weeks he could go to the grocery store without feeling the need to square his shoulders and suck in his stomach; by ten weeks it was too obvious to leave the Facility’s grounds. He might be more excited for this excursion than Lincoln is.

Then again, he reminds himself guiltily, this will be the _fifth_ time that Lincoln has left the Facility in his whole life.

Bucky has no right to complain about being stuck in that Facility until he finds a way to keep his son safe out in the world.

“Can I get up now, please?”

“Chill out, Lincoln,” Bucky smiles. They’re only a few seconds from reaching altitude.

“I’m gonna pee in my pants and pee on the seat, I gotta go.”

“You peed _right_ before we left the apartment—”

“But I already drank all the water in my water bottle—”

“Okay, quit talking and go.”

Lincoln takes off the moment he senses an oncoming _yes_ , sprints six feet, then veers to one side and has to put his arms out like a tightrope walker. Bucky wouldn’t call this _turbulence_ , but it’s a little windy out, and while the Quinjets are incredibly powerful and quick, they’re also lightweight and energy-efficient when used for standard travel. The repulsors only fire intermittently to conserve power, and between those bursts from the thrusters, these jets feel like feathers blowing in the wind. Lincoln isn’t adapting well to a moving floor.

“Papa, come get me, actually, before I pee.”

“Papa‘s flying this bird,” Steve laughs, unbuckling his own seatbelt eagerly. “I’m comin’ to getcha, buddy, hold on.”

Steve and Lincoln are gone for a while. The toilets on the Quinjet are _very_ cramped; barely large enough for someone of Steve or Thor’s height even without having to manhandle a five-year-old who probably still can’t reach the toilet or sink on his own. 

A thought occurs to Bucky as he fidgets with the tube of chapstick in his pocket.

Steve always looks for any excuse to get out of the cockpit. Any excuse to let someone else man the controls. Bucky can’t get Steve to talk about it — how much he hates flying. He never mentions the Valkyrie, never talks about the dreams that wake him up. Bucky has nightmares about that crash, too: of seeing the framed newspaper clippings at the Smithsonian. The headlines which summarized, in just a few short words, that Steve Rogers had saved millions of lives and prevented global nuclear war, that he was dead, that his body could not be found.

Steve particularly hates wearing the safety harnesses in the Quinjet seats. And Bucky knows why: he had died in one; he’d come back to life at some point, presumably with those straps still frozen to his suit sixty-seven years later. In the strange alignment of the decades they’d lived apart, the Valkyrie had become both his mountain ravine and his cryostasis chamber. Steve probably hates those seatbelts like Bucky hates the hiss of hydraulics on the cargo bay door.

Still, Steve didn’t hesitate to pilot their stolen jet to Siberia, and still, Steve always fastens that seatbelt if Lincoln is watching. Bucky wants to shout back to the bathroom just to tell Steve how much he loves him. Instead, he waits until Steve has made his tedious way back, walking in step with Lincoln, wide-legged and slowly to keep their balance, hand in hand. Even then, he doesn’t bother with constructing a sentence — they’re finally moving past the need for words again, so all Bucky has to do now is tip his head and try his best to _look_ like he wants a kiss, and Steve leans down and kisses him.

“That’s gross.”

“So mind your business,” Steve instructs breezily.

“You are _right_ in front of me so unless I was blind I couldn’t mind my business!”

Bucky gets four more kisses than he’d wanted, all to satisfy Steve’s need to spite his son.

Lincoln crosses his arms to demonstrate his frustration. “You guys would be mad at me if I kissed somebody—”

“Why, you got somebody in mind?” Steve asks. His voice is stern and sharp, but Bucky can hear that he’s smiling. Lincoln falls guiltily silent and lets his dad win the debate. Bucky feels a little thrill in the pit of his stomach. His little boy has a crush on a girl. If Bucky wasn’t flying a jet, he’d be dancing, but he keeps his admittedly premature joy contained for Steve and Lincoln’s sake.

About a minute later, Lincoln clears his throat. “Can I push one button?”

“You just pushed one,” counters Steve.

“A button besides the toilet flusher.”

Bucky takes no small amount of delight in watching Steve turn pale green as he rises from his seat in the cockpit and swivels the chair toward Lincoln. Bucky keeps one hand on the stick. To Steve’s continued horror, he nods toward the much-too-large seat, indicating that their son should sit down. “Here,” Bucky shrugs. “You fly it.”

Lincoln stares at him.

No reaction yet.

He’s waiting to see if this is all a trick.

“Well, _somebody_ better fly this jet,” Bucky prompts urgently.

Lincoln climbs dutifully into his new chair and this time, he fastens his seatbelt immediately. He and Steve are both white as sheets.

“Alright, grab the stick with both hands. Do not move it.”

Lincoln, moving like he’s been overcome with rigor mortis, complies. The expression on his little face hardens into the very picture of both terror and concentration. He doesn’t move the stick. Not a millimeter.

Steve, on the other hand, has looked down at the navigational screen and breathed a sigh of relief.

“Okay, Mr. Barnes-Rogers, we’re on a straight course for Clint and Laura’s house, so all you’ve got to do is make sure that stick doesn’t move and you’ll have us there, okay?”

“Okay,” Lincoln replies. His voice is deep, quiet, and _terribly_ serious. “Are you going to stay _right here_ , though? Right, Papa?”

But Bucky takes his hand off the stick. Lincoln’s body somehow manages to become a little tenser as Bucky steps away. His eyes are round and fearfully attentive. “Nah, looks like you’ve got it handled. I might want to get a little more sleep, anyway—”

“Papa — no. Papa, I’m gonna crash it. Help me right now. Help.”

“You’re fine.”

“I don’t feel fine! I cannot drive this! I can’t drive and I don’t know how to get to Natalie’s house! Dad, you fly—”

“Look right there—” Bucky says, pointing down at the controls and interrupting his son’s pleas for mercy. “See that little line with the dot?”

“I can’t look down, I’m flying and I’ll crash us into something!”

“Lincoln, look where I’m pointing. You are forty-one thousand feet in the air: there is nothing to run into. That little dot is us. All we have to do is follow that line, and then we’ll be at Natalie’s house. Can you do it?”

“Um. Yes. Yes, Papa, I’m — I’m doing it. I think I’m doing it — is that — am I doing it right?”

Bucky glances over the controls and out the windshield, pretending to evaluate their course and the readings on a dozen gauges he’s never even looked at before. “Hm — yeah, looks like you’ve got the hang of it. Just don’t touch anything else.”

“Why are you letting me do this when I’m five years old,” Lincoln sighs shakily.

“Listen, if you can steal my phone and get your hands on a stealth jet, you can fly your own stealth jet to Canada. Those are the rules.”

“Oh.”

“Alright — just don’t let it move, okay?”

“Yes, Papa.”

Steve follows Bucky about three steps away from the cockpit before he catches him by the back of the neck and pulls him close, scruffing him like a mean alley cat and being decidedly ungentle, for Steve. “You fucking bastard,” he grins, whispering the words almost inaudibly and shaking Bucky to punctuate each syllable. “That stick doesn’t do shit, it’s in _autopilot_.”

“Yeah, I’m not fuckin’ dumb,” Bucky mouths back, uncapping his chapstick and applying as much as he thinks he can get away with.

“Uh—” Steve holds out his hand expectantly.

Apparently Bucky can’t get away with applying any chapstick at all.

“No. Give me that.”

“No, Steve — it’s almost November, man, come on, they’re chapped—”

“I don’t trust you with this sh-stuff, Bucky, no.”

“I’m not gonna—”

“I’m not letting you eat any more chapstick.”

“I’m not eating it!”

“Yeah, like you didn’t eat my pencils. You’ve got pica, Bucky.”

“Bruce put me on iron and zinc, so I _don’t_ —”

Steve mercilessly wrests the chapstick out of Bucky’s clenched fist and holds it up with a cheeky, triumphant smile, then smears it on his own lips and drops it into the breast pocket of his jacket.

Bucky reaches out to his left, yanks Steve’s locker open, and takes two of Steve’s calorie-dense protein bars. He makes sure Steve is still watching as he slides his fingers under the neatly folded spare civvies on the top shelf, and pulls out the very expensive bag of beef jerky hidden underneath them. Steve looks like he _might_ protest, but then Bucky goes back for the candy bars he’d felt and takes those, too, and that does it.

“Come on!” Steve pleads quietly. “Why can’t you just bring your own fuckin’ food?”

“Shh,” Bucky frowns, pushing past Steve to hide in the shallow alcove where he can stretch his legs out across the width of three jumpseats. “I don’t want him to know I have more food.”

“Papa? Maybe — could you fly for a little while?” Lincoln calls out. “My nose itches and my arms are getting tired.”

Bucky yells back toward the cockpit just as he opens the bag of jerky, neatly covering the rustle of the plastic package. “You’re doing great up there, Lincoln.”

Eventually, a weak, trembling reply follows: “Okay.”

Steve nods toward the cockpit, staring reproachfully at Bucky. “You’re not getting your fucking chapstick back.”

And with that, he leaves Bucky with his stolen food and makes his way back to the cockpit with a slow and easy stride, like he’s confident this will be his easiest rescue ever, and places one hand on the dead stick, needlessly steadying it for his son’s peace of mind. Bucky leans forward to glance around the corner and watch.

Lincoln gives both his arms a shake, laughing unsteadily. “That was really hard,” he huffs. “But not scary.”

“Not scary, huh?” Steve reaches down and slaps his son’s thigh to move him, then claims possession of the pilot’s chair. He hooks his arm around Lincoln’s waist and sweeps him up into his lap. “Maybe _we_ should scare Papa.”

Steve’s fingers execute a familiar dance across the controls. He’s putting the jet in manual flight mode.

“What do you think, should we go a little faster?”

With his own hands over Steve’s on the stick, Lincoln is much bolder. “Yeah, and you should — maybe do a flip.”

“Buckle up back there,” Steve shouts over his shoulder into the cabin. He sounds surprisingly sincere. “We’re gonna roll.”

Luckily, Bucky listens, because Steve makes good on his promise without a second thought. Nothing too crazy and nothing that would put their youngest child at risk, but Steve still knows a few showy tricks.

So Bucky spends the remainder of their flight buckled into that jumpseat, clutching the wall. Steve’s food no longer interests him and he’s going to need to lie down on the Barton’s couch for a few minutes when they land, but it’s worth it to hear Lincoln laughing and shouting up in the cockpit; to see Steve flying for fun, climbing and diving, banking into the wind, and even executing one or two slow, careful rolls, just like he said he would. He’s not tense, not afraid, not seeing any other horizons or feeling drafts of colder air. He’s present, and he’s laughing.

For that, Bucky will gladly continue to grip the edges of his seat, take shallow breaths through his nose, and try not to smell the open bag of jerky in his lap. To calm his stomach, he focuses on a different, gentler flavor: he savors the last, faint traces of chapstick on his lips. It’s not like the stuff is poisonous, and the craving is almost too strong to ignore.

When they reach the farmhouse, he’ll tell Steve that he’s cold and Steve won’t hesitate — he’ll give him that leather jacket and another kiss, and Bucky will have his chapstick back. Steve will be too distracted once they land to notice if he eats just a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, buddies! Sorry for the delay on updates lately. Had to take a short break to complete a non-fanfiction writing/editing project, but I'm back and up to my old bullshit once again! :D


End file.
